Fic #2
Justin struggled with the loft door for five minutes, wondering if finally Brian was exhibiting some emotion other than indifference at the whole situation and had changed the lock like some spurned, hurt, vengeful little queer.
But just as he was about to walk away in a sort of triumph - but without all of the items he’d come over to collect - he flicked his wrist to the other side, and the key turned normally in the lock. Justin smiled in spite of himself, thinking that it was kind of weird that he’d been away from the loft so long that he couldn’t even remember how to open the front door. He allowed himself to be amused for about half a second, then went inside.
First thing he noticed when he walked in was that nothing really had changed - same furniture in the same positions, no new additions. Justin admired the somewhat antiseptic perfection of the place without being awed by it. Three months of living with Ben, who gave off a totally serious, professional vibe but was one of the biggest pack rats Justin had ever known, had blunted his admiration of preternaturally clean spaces. Justin now viewed a disordered living area as an indication of a passionate, creative mind.
Something as ordered and compartmentalized as Brian’s home, though, made it seem like the person who lived there didn’t really care enough to make his home look like something that couldn’t be ordered piecemeal from a catalog. Justin knew he was being a little simplistic, but he couldn’t help it. The loft sort of bored him now.
He suddenly realized that he was wasting time - this little errand wasn’t going to take very long. He’d had practice, after all, in leaving Brian the first time around. The whole Ethan thing had sort of been a dry run - Justin had been able to gauge just how long it took to grab his things from the loft, push aside all his memories of times with Brian that had come and gone, and get out without leaving a clue that he’d ever been there at all.
Moving quickly, but without really rushing, he went to the television, a big, flat-screen plasma job - one of the first things Brian had bought when Gardner Vance had “restored” him to his former job at Vanguard.
Justin had nearly shit himself when Brian announced, over a round of drinks at Woody’s, that he’d decided to return to Vanguard and accede to Gardner Vance’s request that he sign a letter of apology to Jim Stockwell.
“The little fucker can have his apology,” Brian had hissed between gulps of Stoli. “He gets his piece of paper . . . and I get mine.” And he’d taken out another $50 bill from a stack that represented an “advance” from Vanguard, ordering another round.
Justin had walked away that night in a daze, not sure if he was dreaming or tweaking or what. Just a piece of paper . . . he’d gotten his ass kicked out of school for refusing to sign just such a piece of paper, and Brian had backed him on it. Now, not even a year later, Brian was blowing the ink dry on a ‘mea culpa’ letter just because Vance had promised him an unlimited expense account? Where the fuck had the empathy gone?
Scooping up some DVDs that belonged to him, Justin grinned at the ‘N Sync Live disc Daphne had gotten for him as a joke that past Christmas. Walking through other parts of the loft and grabbing assorted odds and ends that belonged to him, Justin remembered Daphne had asked just two questions after he’d told her that he was seeing Ben. Two questions: “How?” and “Why?”
The first question had been harder to answer than the second. Justin didn’t think even he - or Ben, for that matter - knew exactly how they’d gone from acquaintances, to occasional dance partners, to a fuck in the backroom of Babylon, to being this couple or pair or family or whatever it was that had the usual suspects buzzing up and down Liberty Avenue.
All Justin could think was that while Brian had been off slipping into the single-note persona of dedicated company-man, he and Ben had drawn closer somehow, finding common ground, points of mutual interest. Michael had sided with Brian on the Stockwell situation, but Ben had been as disgusted by Brian’s reverse as Justin had been, and was afraid to say it out loud. In Ben, Justin finally felt he had someone who would listen to him without beginning or ending each sentence with, “But after all Brian’s done for you . . .”
Justin had thought that after the whole Ethan thing and the Stockwell thing that Brian had begun to really listen to what he’d had to say. But this new Brian restored to Vance’s favor wasn’t the Brian he knew or loved or trusted or even respected. Even sadder - Brian didn’t seem to acknowledge or even realize that he had changed.
Justin wandered into the bedroom. It was dark and spotless, the bed looking as if it hadn’t been slept in, in months. Not much of a surprise, but it jarred Justin anyway. He cast a fond eye on the duvet, stopping just short of stroking it. No matter what, there were certain things he’d always treasure about his time with Brian, and many of them began and ended with the duvet.
He’d never forget that Brian saved him in the literal sense, and had also probably kept him from a life of Dartmouth, a business degree and the farce of trying to convince himself and his parents that he was in love with some blue-blood Stepford-in-training. If nothing else, Brian had taught him how to be true to himself, even if now he wasn’t following his own advice.
Justin took a seat on the edge of the bed and toyed with the edge of the duvet, thinking about Daph’s second question - the “why” part of his new relationship with Ben. It feels right, is what he’d told her after a second or two of thinking about it.
That’s all he could say in the end - that was all either of them could say to anyone who asked. Of course, Brian hadn’t asked Justin anything when he’d stopped coming to the loft so often and had stopped staying over even less. Brian hadn’t even said anything the night he’d come to Babylon and saw him and Ben kissing. Brian had just found three hot guys and disappeared for more than a quarter of an hour, barely looking around as he’d left.
Likewise, he hadn’t batted an eye when Michael, finding out about the whole thing somehow, had barged into Woody’s one night screeching at Brian to do something. Brian had just simply shrugged his shoulders, tilted an eyebrow at Justin and remarked with a casual incisiveness that he’d best get whatever he had stored in the loft, because he was throwing out “anything that doesn’t look like it belongs.”
Then he’d dragged out a sobbing Michael, trundled him into the ‘Vette, and taken off in a cloud of blue smoke. Neither had been seen around the city since that day. About three days later, though, Ben started getting harassing e-mails from an ISP based in Canada. Justin had seen a couple of the letters - all of them horribly misspelled and in all caps - and he wondered if Brian was okay with Michael using his precious laptop to compose such poorly thought-out crap or if he was leaving Michael to his own devices while he trolled for Canadian cock.
But then again, neither Brian nor Michael had contacted anyone else in the Pitts for three months, so for all Justin knew, they could have gotten married or some shit and started setting up house in one of those little two-syllable suburbs outside Toronto.
Justin rose from the bed and gave the duvet a farewell pat, clutching his bag of stuff tight against his hip as he walked toward the front door. He hesitated once he got there, wondering if he should take one last, long look at the place, since it was very likely this would be the last time he’d ever see the inside of it.
He lifted his shoulders a little, musing that all he wanted to remember about the loft and his time with Brian in general was already committed to memory, and would be for the rest of his life, most likely, so why bother to look around again? But even so, Justin wrenched open the door a little slower than was necessary, and slid out, carefully closing the door behind him with his eyes to the floor.
But just as he was about to walk away in a sort of triumph - but without all of the items he’d come over to collect - he flicked his wrist to the other side, and the key turned normally in the lock. Justin smiled in spite of himself, thinking that it was kind of weird that he’d been away from the loft so long that he couldn’t even remember how to open the front door. He allowed himself to be amused for about half a second, then went inside.
First thing he noticed when he walked in was that nothing really had changed - same furniture in the same positions, no new additions. Justin admired the somewhat antiseptic perfection of the place without being awed by it. Three months of living with Ben, who gave off a totally serious, professional vibe but was one of the biggest pack rats Justin had ever known, had blunted his admiration of preternaturally clean spaces. Justin now viewed a disordered living area as an indication of a passionate, creative mind.
Something as ordered and compartmentalized as Brian’s home, though, made it seem like the person who lived there didn’t really care enough to make his home look like something that couldn’t be ordered piecemeal from a catalog. Justin knew he was being a little simplistic, but he couldn’t help it. The loft sort of bored him now.
He suddenly realized that he was wasting time - this little errand wasn’t going to take very long. He’d had practice, after all, in leaving Brian the first time around. The whole Ethan thing had sort of been a dry run - Justin had been able to gauge just how long it took to grab his things from the loft, push aside all his memories of times with Brian that had come and gone, and get out without leaving a clue that he’d ever been there at all.
Moving quickly, but without really rushing, he went to the television, a big, flat-screen plasma job - one of the first things Brian had bought when Gardner Vance had “restored” him to his former job at Vanguard.
Justin had nearly shit himself when Brian announced, over a round of drinks at Woody’s, that he’d decided to return to Vanguard and accede to Gardner Vance’s request that he sign a letter of apology to Jim Stockwell.
“The little fucker can have his apology,” Brian had hissed between gulps of Stoli. “He gets his piece of paper . . . and I get mine.” And he’d taken out another $50 bill from a stack that represented an “advance” from Vanguard, ordering another round.
Justin had walked away that night in a daze, not sure if he was dreaming or tweaking or what. Just a piece of paper . . . he’d gotten his ass kicked out of school for refusing to sign just such a piece of paper, and Brian had backed him on it. Now, not even a year later, Brian was blowing the ink dry on a ‘mea culpa’ letter just because Vance had promised him an unlimited expense account? Where the fuck had the empathy gone?
Scooping up some DVDs that belonged to him, Justin grinned at the ‘N Sync Live disc Daphne had gotten for him as a joke that past Christmas. Walking through other parts of the loft and grabbing assorted odds and ends that belonged to him, Justin remembered Daphne had asked just two questions after he’d told her that he was seeing Ben. Two questions: “How?” and “Why?”
The first question had been harder to answer than the second. Justin didn’t think even he - or Ben, for that matter - knew exactly how they’d gone from acquaintances, to occasional dance partners, to a fuck in the backroom of Babylon, to being this couple or pair or family or whatever it was that had the usual suspects buzzing up and down Liberty Avenue.
All Justin could think was that while Brian had been off slipping into the single-note persona of dedicated company-man, he and Ben had drawn closer somehow, finding common ground, points of mutual interest. Michael had sided with Brian on the Stockwell situation, but Ben had been as disgusted by Brian’s reverse as Justin had been, and was afraid to say it out loud. In Ben, Justin finally felt he had someone who would listen to him without beginning or ending each sentence with, “But after all Brian’s done for you . . .”
Justin had thought that after the whole Ethan thing and the Stockwell thing that Brian had begun to really listen to what he’d had to say. But this new Brian restored to Vance’s favor wasn’t the Brian he knew or loved or trusted or even respected. Even sadder - Brian didn’t seem to acknowledge or even realize that he had changed.
Justin wandered into the bedroom. It was dark and spotless, the bed looking as if it hadn’t been slept in, in months. Not much of a surprise, but it jarred Justin anyway. He cast a fond eye on the duvet, stopping just short of stroking it. No matter what, there were certain things he’d always treasure about his time with Brian, and many of them began and ended with the duvet.
He’d never forget that Brian saved him in the literal sense, and had also probably kept him from a life of Dartmouth, a business degree and the farce of trying to convince himself and his parents that he was in love with some blue-blood Stepford-in-training. If nothing else, Brian had taught him how to be true to himself, even if now he wasn’t following his own advice.
Justin took a seat on the edge of the bed and toyed with the edge of the duvet, thinking about Daph’s second question - the “why” part of his new relationship with Ben. It feels right, is what he’d told her after a second or two of thinking about it.
That’s all he could say in the end - that was all either of them could say to anyone who asked. Of course, Brian hadn’t asked Justin anything when he’d stopped coming to the loft so often and had stopped staying over even less. Brian hadn’t even said anything the night he’d come to Babylon and saw him and Ben kissing. Brian had just found three hot guys and disappeared for more than a quarter of an hour, barely looking around as he’d left.
Likewise, he hadn’t batted an eye when Michael, finding out about the whole thing somehow, had barged into Woody’s one night screeching at Brian to do something. Brian had just simply shrugged his shoulders, tilted an eyebrow at Justin and remarked with a casual incisiveness that he’d best get whatever he had stored in the loft, because he was throwing out “anything that doesn’t look like it belongs.”
Then he’d dragged out a sobbing Michael, trundled him into the ‘Vette, and taken off in a cloud of blue smoke. Neither had been seen around the city since that day. About three days later, though, Ben started getting harassing e-mails from an ISP based in Canada. Justin had seen a couple of the letters - all of them horribly misspelled and in all caps - and he wondered if Brian was okay with Michael using his precious laptop to compose such poorly thought-out crap or if he was leaving Michael to his own devices while he trolled for Canadian cock.
But then again, neither Brian nor Michael had contacted anyone else in the Pitts for three months, so for all Justin knew, they could have gotten married or some shit and started setting up house in one of those little two-syllable suburbs outside Toronto.
Justin rose from the bed and gave the duvet a farewell pat, clutching his bag of stuff tight against his hip as he walked toward the front door. He hesitated once he got there, wondering if he should take one last, long look at the place, since it was very likely this would be the last time he’d ever see the inside of it.
He lifted his shoulders a little, musing that all he wanted to remember about the loft and his time with Brian in general was already committed to memory, and would be for the rest of his life, most likely, so why bother to look around again? But even so, Justin wrenched open the door a little slower than was necessary, and slid out, carefully closing the door behind him with his eyes to the floor.